The  Working  Class  and  the  Employing  Class 
Have  Nothing  in  Common 

_ 

The  Industrial 


Working  Class 


Discontented 


Published  by  the  1.  W.  W.  of  Seattle,  Wash¬ 
ington,  108  1-2  Fourth  Ave.,  So. 


Our  Union  which  is  on  Earth. 

The  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World  be 
thy  name. 

The  World  to  gain. 

Its  Power  to  be  on  Earth,  and  not  in 
Heaven. 

And  give  us  every  day  a  chance  to  earn 
our  bread. 

And  repudiate  the  Capitalist,  as  he  repudi¬ 
ates  us. 

.And  lead  us  not  into  Panics,  but  deliver  us 
from  wage  slavery: 

For  ours  is  the  Earth,  and  the  Pov/er, 

And  the  Organization  forever.  So  shall  it  be: 

O,  Men! 


JOHN  D.’S  SOLILOQUY 

(Tune:  “Auld  Lyne  Syne.”) 

Ten  million  workers  sweat  and  toil, 
Increasing  my  wealth  and  fame. 

With  wages  small,  but  I  tell  them  all 
Our  interest  is  the  same. 

Theii'  labor  leaders  repeat  my  words. 

And  politics  hold  sway, 

Which  pleases  me,  as  I  like  to  see 
Them  vote  in  the  same  old  way. 

CHORUS. 

The  grub  is  soaring  out  of  sight, 

.-Vnd  clothing’s  extra  high, 

.4nd  house  rents  upward  take  their  course 
And  to  the  heavens  fly. 

While  wages  take  the  toboggan  route. 
And  downward,  down  they  go; 

So  workingmen,  when  winter  comes. 

May  have  to  live  on  snow. 

For  some  stand  pat  for  the  Democrat, 

And  some  for  the  G.  O.  P. 

But  both  will  use  the  riot  gun 
Whenever  it  pleases  me. 

Or  split  their  force  in  the  great  sham  flght. 
For  none  understand  the  game; 

So  whichever  wins  of  my  faithful  twins, 

I  “boodle”  just  the  same. 

They  cast  their  vote  for  the  12-hour  boss, 
.'"d  <^trike  for  an  eight-hour  day; 

Which  cheers  me  so  that  I  overflow 
"  ith  mirth  and  reduce  their  pay. 

They  strike  like  fools,  and  they  vote  like 
seals, 

.And  land  in  the  big  bull-i)en; 

Hence  I  laugh  “Ha!  Ha!”  but  my  inter¬ 
ests  are  RBC 

The  same  as  the  workingmen.  ^ 

NcU 

The  industrial  worker  is  all  1  fear 
In  this  land  of  graft  and  fake; 

Tf  T  ^an’t  prevent  their  gathering  here 
’Uo  the  woods  I’ll  have  to  take. 

As  long  as  they  play  with  my  ballot-box. 


My  sides  will  shake  with  glee; 

When  they  organize  to  enforce  their  rights 
O^then,  “Skidoo!”  for  me. 

FINIS. 


WORKINGMEN  UNITE 

(To  the  tune  of  “Red  Wing.”) 

Conditions  they  are  bad — 

And  some  of  you  are  sad — 

You  cannot  see  your  enemy; 

The  class  that  lives  in  luxury. 

You  workingmen  are  poor — 

Will  be  for  evermoi'e — 

As  long  as  they  permit  the  few, 

To  guide  your  destiny. 

CHORUS. 

Shall  we  still  be  slaves  and  work  for  wages? 
It  is  outrageous — has  been  for  ages — 

This  earth  by  right  belongs  to  toilers — 
And  not  to  spoilers  of  liberty. 

The  master  class  is  small — 

But  they  have  lots  of  gall — 

When  we  unite  to  gain  our  fight 
If  they  resist  we’II  use  our  might. 

There  is  no  middle  ground; 

This  fight  must  be  one  round — 

To  victory  for  liberty — 

Our  class  is  marching  on. 

Workingmen  unite — 

We  must  put  up  a  fight — 

To  make  us  free  from  slavery — 

.4nd  capitalistic  tyranny. 

This  fight  is  not  in  vain — 

We  have  a  world  to  gain — 

Will  vou  be  a  fool,  a  capitalist  tool; 

.And  serve  your  enemy. 


The  toad  beneath  the  harrow  knows 
Exactly  where  each  tooth-point  goes: 
The  butterfly,  along  the  road, 
Preaches  contentment  to  the  toad! 

— Kipling. 


THE  RED  FLAG 

(By  James  Connell.) 

“The  poor — is  any  country  his?  What 
are  to  me  your  glories  and  your  industries — 
they  are  not  mine.” 

The  People’s  flag  is  deepest  red, 

It  shnmded  oft,  our  martyred  dead; 

And  ere  their  limbs  grew  stiff  and  cold 
'  Their  life-blood  dyed  its  every  fold. 

CHORUS. 

Then  raise  the  Scarlet  Standarcf 'IpglTr^'^ 
Beneath  its  folds  we’ll  Hve^iW  die^  ' 
Though  cowards  flinch  and  traitors  sne^r, 
We’ll  keep  the  Red  Flag  flying  herer"*"" 

Look  ’round!  the  Frenchman  loves  its  blaze, 
The  sturdy  German  chants  its  praise; 

In  Moscow’s  vaults  its  hymns  are  sTing,' 
Chicago  swells  its  surging  song. 

It  waved  above  our  Infant  might 
When  all  ahead  seemed  dark  as  night; 

.  It 'witnessed  many  a  deed  and  vow. 

We  will  not  change  its  color  now. 

It  suits  to-day  the  meek  and  base 
Whose  minds  are  fixed  on  pelf  and  place 
To  cringe  beneath  the  rich  man’s  frown. 
And  haul  that  sacred  emblem  down. 


With  heads  uncovered,  swear  we  all. 
To  bear  it  onward  till  we  fall; 

Come  dungeons  dark,  or  gallows  grim. 
This  song  shall  be  our  parting  hymn! 


lJ 


